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Devonport: A Hidden Gem in Tasmania’s History

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Devonport’s history begins with the joining of two settlements, Torquay and Formby, on either side of the Mersey River. These small communities, founded in the 1850s, were independent at first. In 1893, the towns merged to become Devonport. The joining of these two settlements was meant to symbolize unity. But in truth, rivalry remained beneath the surface for many years.

On the east bank, Torquay was built by the hands of fishers and farmers. Their focus was always on the river, where the fish were plentiful, and the land was rich for crops. Formby, on the west bank, grew from merchants and traders, who saw the river as a route for business. Devonport, therefore, was born from a union of necessity, not necessarily of shared values.

In 1907, Devonport became a municipality. It was the first step towards modernity, but it wasn’t until Prince Charles of Wales visited in 1981 that Devonport was declared a city. By then, it had grown into Tasmania’s third-largest city, with a population that reflected its newfound urban status.

Despite its small size, Devonport’s people were innovative. Around 1901, the Finlayson family made history by building what many believe to be the first steam car in the southern hemisphere. Their foundry, small and modest, soon gained a reputation across Tasmania for its forward-thinking designs.

Later, in 1934, the Holyman family established a shipping business that would eventually evolve into Australia’s first airline to connect the mainland with Tasmania. Their story is still told today, a testament to Devonport’s pioneering spirit.

But Devonport’s mark on history wasn’t just industrial. It was also political. The town became the birthplace of Joseph Lyons, Australia’s tenth Prime Minister, and his wife, Enid Lyons, the first woman elected to the House of Representatives. Enid’s achievements were monumental. After Joseph’s death, she continued to serve her country, inspiring generations of women to follow in her footsteps. Today, their home, “Home Hill,” stands as a museum, a symbol of Devonport’s place in Australian political history.

But the most remarkable story in Devonport belongs to a woman whose name has largely been forgotten, though her deeds were far from ordinary.

The Story of Alice Gurney

Alice Gurney was a local shopkeeper. She ran a small general store that sat on the corner of Torquay Road. By all accounts, she lived a simple life. No one would have expected her to play a key role in solving a crime that gripped Devonport in the 1950s.

One evening, a young boy went missing. His name was Matthew Reid. He had gone to the riverbank to fish, as many boys did back then, but he never returned. The town searched for him for days. The police, the townspeople, even those from neighboring communities came to help. But there was no sign of Matthew.

Alice watched all this from her shop. She saw the men leave each morning with hope in their eyes, only to return at night with nothing to show for their efforts. On the fifth day, Alice noticed something. There was a man, a stranger, who had arrived in town the day Matthew disappeared. He had claimed to be a traveling salesman, but something about him made Alice suspicious.

She watched him carefully. He would sit at the local pub each night, talking with whoever would listen. But he never seemed interested in selling anything. Instead, he asked about the search for Matthew. Alice found this odd. She kept her distance, listening, observing, until one night, the man said something that caught her ear. He mentioned the riverbank, describing a detail about the rocks there that only someone who had been at the exact spot where Matthew was last seen would know.

Alice went to the police the next day. She told them about the man. At first, they dismissed her. After all, she was just a shopkeeper. But Alice insisted. “Watch him,” she said. “He knows something.”

Reluctantly, they agreed. The police began to follow the man, watching his every move. And sure enough, he led them to Matthew’s body, hidden in a shallow grave near the river. The man had killed the boy over a petty argument and had been pretending to help with the search all along.

The town was in shock. No one had suspected the stranger. But Alice had trusted her instincts. When the man was arrested, the townspeople couldn’t believe it. Alice had solved the crime.

Years later, people would still talk about the boy who went missing. They would speak of how he had been found, and how a quiet woman had been the one to bring justice to his family.

The Twist

But there was one thing Alice never told anyone. Not even the police. She had known the man from long ago. He wasn’t just a stranger. He was her cousin, a black sheep of the family who had left town years before. She had recognized him the moment he walked into her shop, but she had kept quiet. She had waited, biding her time, knowing that eventually, he would reveal himself.

And when he did, she made sure justice was served.

Alice’s secret died with her. She never spoke of it to anyone. But in her quiet way, she had protected her town, all while hiding the truth that would have made her part of the very crime she helped solve.

Exploring the Roots of Alice Springs

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Alice Springs, a small town in the heart of Australia, has a history woven with adventure, endurance, and change. It lies in the red center, where the land stretches vast and dry, yet beneath it all, stories run deep like the Todd River during a rare flood.

In 1861, John McDouall Stuart, a man with a vision for exploration, led an expedition through Central Australia. He blazed a trail from the southern shores to the far north, crossing harsh lands and unknown territories. His journey opened up the interior of the continent, and though Stuart himself did not know it at the time, he had set the stage for what would become Alice Springs.

Years later, in 1872, the Overland Telegraph Line (OTL) was completed, linking Adelaide in the south to Darwin in the north and, from there, to Great Britain. This telegraph line followed much of Stuart’s route, and it was no easy task. The desert was unforgiving, and the heat unrelenting. Yet, the OTL became a lifeline, connecting the isolated outback to the rest of the world.

A small telegraph station was built along the line near what seemed to be a permanent waterhole in the Todd River. The station was named Alice Springs, after the wife of Sir Charles Todd, who had championed the telegraph’s construction. The settlement that grew around this station was first called Stuart, in honor of the explorer. But in 1933, it was renamed Alice Springs, recognizing the station and its significance in the town’s history.

One of the earliest settlers in Alice Springs was William “Bill” Henderson. A man of few words, Bill had come from Adelaide in search of opportunity. He worked as a telegraph operator, a quiet job, but it gave him insight into the pulse of a growing nation. Bill had a sharp mind and saw that the real value of this place wasn’t just the telegraph—it was its potential as a hub. The land was tough, but it held promise.

Bill often sat by the Todd River, which rarely had water but always held a place of significance. One evening, he spoke with a young traveler, a man named Thomas, who had wandered into town. Thomas was looking for gold at Arltunga, a mining site 100 kilometers to the east.

“You think there’s much out there?” Thomas asked, his eyes scanning the horizon, his hopes resting on the riches beneath the red dirt.

Bill smiled, “It’s not the gold that makes a place, son. It’s the people.”

Thomas chuckled. “People? There’s barely twenty souls in this town.”

“That’s now,” Bill said. “But it’ll grow. It always does. Things move slower here, but they move.”

Bill was right. In 1887, alluvial gold was discovered at Arltunga, and soon, settlers and prospectors began to arrive. The population of Stuart—later Alice Springs—grew, though not by much. In 1909, the first substantial building, the Stuart Town Gaol, was built. Many of the early prisoners were Aboriginal men who had clashed with the settlers over cattle and land. The town’s population was still small, and life was hard. But people came, drawn by the promise of gold and the adventure of the unknown.

In 1921, the first aircraft landed in Alice Springs, piloted by Francis Stewart Briggs. It was an event that caused quite a stir among the locals. Bill Henderson, now older but still sharp, watched as the plane touched down. He stood beside a crowd of onlookers, their faces a mix of awe and disbelief.

“Think we’ll see more of those?” someone asked him.

Bill shrugged. “Maybe. Time changes things. Faster than we think.”

By 1926, the town had grown enough to need its first hospital, Adelaide House. The European population was about forty by then, and the need for medical care was becoming more pressing. The hospital was a simple building, but it was a sign that Alice Springs was becoming more than just a telegraph outpost.

The town’s growth was slow but steady. In 1929, the railway finally reached Alice Springs, bringing with it new settlers and a link to the rest of the continent. Among those who came were Afghan cameleers, immigrants from the North-West Frontier of British India, now Pakistan. They had been a part of the outback’s history for decades, operating camel trains that transported goods across the desert. With the arrival of the railway, many cameleers moved to Alice Springs, where they continued their trade, though now alongside the trains that ran on steel tracks.

One day, Bill Henderson, now an old man, sat outside the telegraph station, watching the cameleers lead their camels into town. A young boy, no more than ten, stood nearby, wide-eyed at the sight of the towering animals.

“Are they here to stay?” the boy asked.

Bill nodded. “Looks like it. This town’s changing.”

The boy looked up at him. “Do you think it’ll ever be big, like Adelaide or Darwin?”

Bill smiled, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of age. “Maybe not that big. But it’ll be big enough.”

The boy thought about that for a moment. “What makes a town big enough?”

Bill leaned forward, his voice low and steady. “A place is big enough when it’s got stories to tell. And trust me, son, this place has plenty.”

The boy smiled, understanding something beyond his years. Bill patted him on the shoulder and stood, looking out at the town he had helped shape, knowing that the future of Alice Springs was secure, not in gold or telegraph lines, but in the people who called it home.

As the years went by, Alice Springs continued to grow. By 1933, the town was officially renamed from Stuart to Alice Springs, and it became a center for the outback, a place where history, people, and stories converged. Bill Henderson’s name may have faded into the background, but the spirit he embodied lived on in every person who came through that town, looking for adventure, opportunity, or simply a place to call home.

The Rich History of Broken Hill: From Miners to Tree Planters

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Broken Hill, a town born from the sweat of explorers and the grit of miners, carries a history that stretches back to 1844. It was then that Charles Sturt, a British explorer, set foot in the region. Sturt wasn’t alone on this journey; he had the wisdom of an Indigenous teenager named Topar from Menindee. Topar led him along Stephens Creek, a place the locals knew well. They pressed on together, and as they reached the Barrier Range, Sturt realized something crucial. The mountains in front of him weren’t just any mountains—they were a barrier, one that blocked his path to an inland sea he sought. And so, he named them the Barrier Range.

In the years that followed, the area drew the attention of settlers. Pastoralists began to move in during the 1850s, bringing their flocks and livelihoods with them. Their journey wasn’t easy, but the Darling River provided a reliable trade route, a lifeline connecting them to the outside world.

Then, in 1883, a man named Charles Rasp changed everything. He wasn’t an explorer or a soldier. He was a boundary rider, patrolling the fences of Mount Gipps Station, a remote patch of land. One day, while out on his patrol, Rasp noticed something curious in the rocks. He thought it might be tin. But he was wrong. It was much more valuable than that—silver and lead, glittering beneath the sun.

Rasp didn’t keep this discovery to himself. He gathered a group of six others, and together they formed the Syndicate of Seven. This group would go on to establish the Broken Hill Proprietary Company, known to the world today as BHP. The orebody they had uncovered was vast, the richest of its kind anywhere. By 1885, the small venture had grown into something huge. BHP became a giant in the mining world, and Broken Hill became the heart of it all.

Yet, by 1915, the ore reserves began to dwindle. BHP shifted its focus to steel production, and by 1939, the mining operations under BHP had stopped altogether. But mining didn’t die with BHP. Other companies continued to dig into the ground, and the mining legacy endured.

This is the backdrop of Broken Hill’s history, but it’s only part of the town’s story. The people of Broken Hill—miners, explorers, and everyday folk—wove their lives into this place. One of those people was an old miner named Tom Barrett. He didn’t discover silver or lead, but he found something just as valuable.

Tom arrived in Broken Hill long after the Syndicate of Seven had made their mark. He came from the coast, seeking work like so many others. The mines were his destination, but he soon realized that life underground wasn’t for him. The dust, the heat, the confinement—it all wore on him. So, Tom left the mines and opened a small shop on Argent Street. He sold tools to the miners and shared stories of his days in the pits.

One hot summer afternoon, an old friend from the mines, Jack, came by the shop. Jack had a look of frustration on his face, his brow furrowed from years of labor.

“Tom, I’m thinking of leaving the mines,” Jack said, slumping into a chair. “My back’s giving out, and the work’s getting tougher.”

Tom nodded. He understood. “It’s no easy life down there. But what will you do?”

Jack shrugged. “Don’t know. But I’ve had enough of being underground.”

Tom leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice calm and steady. “You’ve spent your life digging into the earth, Jack. Maybe it’s time you did something different. Something above ground.”

Jack looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. The earth down there has given us all we have. Silver, lead, wealth. But it’s also taken a lot from us—our health, our time, even some of our mates. Maybe it’s time we gave something back.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And how do you suppose we do that?”

Tom smiled. “We plant something.”

The idea seemed odd at first, planting trees in the hard soil of Broken Hill. But Tom believed it was what the town needed. He wasn’t wealthy like Rasp, and he didn’t have grand ambitions of changing the world. But he could change the street he lived on. So, Tom started small. He cleared a patch of land behind his shop and began planting trees. Eucalyptus, mulga, anything that could survive the harsh conditions.

People thought he was wasting his time. “Nothing grows here, Tom,” they said.

But Tom didn’t listen. He watered the trees every day, even when water was scarce. Jack helped him, as did a few other miners who had also left the pits. Slowly, the trees began to grow, their roots digging deep into the soil, just as the miners had once dug deep for silver.

One day, a young boy named Sam walked by Tom’s shop. He watched Tom work the soil, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Why are you planting those trees?” Sam asked.

Tom wiped his hands on his pants and looked at the boy. “Because this town needs something that lasts. The silver will run out, but these trees—they’ll keep growing long after we’re gone.”

Sam didn’t quite understand, but he nodded and ran off to tell his friends.

Years passed, and Tom’s trees grew tall. They provided shade for the workers who walked by on their way to the mines. They cooled the street, offering a small reprieve from the scorching sun. And in time, people stopped doubting Tom’s efforts.

When Tom passed away, the townsfolk gathered by his trees to say their goodbyes. Jack was there, standing under the shade of the eucalyptus, remembering the day Tom had suggested they give something back.

“He was right,” Jack said quietly, speaking to no one in particular. “These trees—they’ll outlast the mines.”

And they did.

Tom Barrett never became famous like Charles Sturt or Charles Rasp. His name didn’t appear in history books. But his trees still stand today, a quiet reminder of the man who believed that Broken Hill’s future lay not in what they took from the earth, but in what they gave back to it.